Night
by Charlotte88
Summary: One-shot. Post-series fifteen. "You find yourself glad that you put some space between the two of you, because the not-entirely-unfamiliar frisson of desire that shoots through you threatens to overwhelm."


**Night**

He's completely plastered, when he calls you and asks you to pick him up from the bar. A weary sigh escapes your lips as you collapse, once again, into your car. It's been a really long day – no, scratch that – a really long _week_ with an insufferable detective. A little part of you nearly told him to bugger off, to get a taxi and find his own way home. But you know it's been twenty-five years today since the death of his father, and you also know that he pulled a sicky this morning and has been ignoring your calls all day.

Until now.

So either he's so drunk that he's completely forgotten what year it is, let alone what day; or he's just stopped caring.

You suspect the latter.

The bar is practically empty when you arrive. It's a Thursday, a little past midnight, and most (sensible) people are tucked up in bed. Apart from you, obviously. And Harry.

He spots you almost immediately, throwing his arms wide and nearly crushing you in a hug. You've seen him drunk before, but this is something else. Normally he handles his scotch quite well, well enough to string a coherent sentence together anyway, which is something he's struggling with at the moment.

"I knew you'd come," is what you think he's trying to say.

"I didn't really have much choice in the matter."

For a moment, your eyes travel over his body. He looks awful; his face is a ghostly shade of white, the shadows under his bloodshot eyes dark and imposing. He clearly didn't shave this morning and he's only wearing a creased t-shirt and crumpled jeans, despite the cool October weather.

You turn to the barman, who's slowly wiping a glass with a cloth just for something to do. "How many has he had?"

"Too many. I stopped serving him a while ago. Told him to call someone. I did offer him a coffee, but he refused to take it."

You nod. Another sigh. "Come on, you, let's get you home." You place an arm around his waist as he drapes one over your shoulder. With your spare hand you take his, ensuring that he stays upright.

"No!" he protests as he realises that you're leading him _away_ from the bar. "One more, Nikki! C'mon!"

"I think you've had enough, don't you?"

You eventually manage to get him into your car. It was difficult; he's a lot heavier and stronger than you are, and it took some gentle coercion (you're hoping that he won't have any recollection of how he got that bruise on his arm come the morning), but eventually he collapses into the passenger seat.

As you're about to start the engine, his fingers find yours and he stops you. There's a slightly unsettling look on his face as he stares at you, and just for a moment you forget that he's totally inebriated. Then he says again, "I knew you'd come," before releasing your hand and turning to stare out of the window.

He falls asleep on the way home, and despite the lateness of the hour you drive around aimlessly for a while to allow him to keep sleeping. He looks peaceful, vulnerable, like he hasn't slept in days; and suddenly you're worried about him.

Maybe the anniversary of his father's death has hit him harder this year than it has done before. Because normally he doesn't even mention it, let alone take a whole day off work (which he's reluctant to do even when he _is_ actually sick) to go out drinking alone.

After nearly an hour of driving around London, you finally pull up outside his apartment. You're going to have to wake him up; there's no way you can get him inside otherwise, and you can't keep driving around all night.

For a moment you simply watch him sleep, then place a gentle hand on his arm. "Harry? Harry, we're home."

He opens his eyes and jumps violently, snatching his arm away from you. You wait calmly as he starts blinking blearily at his surroundings. Momentary confusion registers in his gaze. "Home..." he repeats slowly. Then mutters, "Sorry." It's very clear that he's still drunk, and yet he does appear slightly more sober than he was before.

"It's fine. Come on," you say briskly, getting out of the car and walking around to the pavement to open his door.

He flails for a moment as he attempts to get out with his seatbelt still on, and you resist the temptation to laugh at the baffled look on his face. Leaning over him, you unbuckle it yourself. He catches your arm before you can stand up straight again and you turn to question him, your faces mere centimetres apart.

You have a feeling he was going to say something, but he doesn't.

So you do instead.

"You smell like a brewery."

You both smile slightly and he relinquishes his tight grip on you. You straighten up again, releasing a breath you hadn't been aware you were holding.

"Now, let's try again, shall we?" you ask him pointedly. "Because I am not carrying you indoors, you great lump."

It takes him a couple of attempts, but he manages to heave himself out of the car. You go to hold on to him again but he impatiently brushes you away; clearly he's steadier on his feet this time.

He struggles with his key when you reach the front door. You tut good-naturedly and gently prise it from his fingers, letting the pair of you into his apartment yourself. Immediately he heads to the kitchen. A second later you hear the chink of glass on glass.

"Harry, no!" you scold, like a mother would a child, running after him and taking the vodka bottle from his hands before he can spill any more around the tumbler he was clearly aiming for. "You are not going to keep drinking."

"Please, Nikki," he begs, gazing at you imploringly. "Please. To forget."

"Forget what?" you snap impatiently, but his answer, and the vulnerability in his voice, takes your breath away.

"Everything."

It really hits you in that second just how much he's been through. He could be referring to any number of things; his father, some of the particularly trying cases they've had, what happened in Budapest last year... An overwhelming sensation of pity punches you in the gut. Swallowing hard, you place the bottle down on the worktop and take both of his hands in your own. "Harry, alcohol isn't going to make it all go away. Everything will still be there tomorrow, only now you're going to have to deal with it whilst hungover."

"It helps," he whispers, and you're shocked and upset to see the sudden wetness of his eyes.

"Why today?" you ask him gently. "Why this year?"

"I visited his grave this morning, for the first time in over a decade," he tells you, sounding more sober than he has done all night. "It brought everything flooding back."

You nod, understanding. "And once the gates are opened..."

"... they're fucking impossible to close again, yes," he finishes, with an uncharacteristic bitterness.

You sigh, watching him not looking at you for a moment, before leading him through to the lounge and forcing him to sit beside you on the sofa.

"Do you want something to eat?" you ask.

"No."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Not tonight."

You're silent for a moment, and you don't miss the single, silent tear that dribbles down his cheek. "What can I do, Harry? Just tell me what I can do."

He thinks for a moment, then says, "Put a movie on. Any movie."

You glance at your watch. One-thirty a.m. But what the hell, you have the day off tomorrow and Harry clearly needs you right now.

"Anything?" you reply with a grin. "Well, in that case you know it's going to have to be Dirty Dancing."

He groans again as you get up and cross to his DVD player, but you have a suspicion that he doesn't hate this film as much as he claims to.

You sit at the end of the sofa, careful to keep your distance from him until he wants to let you in, as the opening titles begin to play.

"Oh god, I'm going to throw up."

You tut reproachfully. "It's not that bad. You told me yourself that you had a crush on Jennifer Grey as a teenager-"

"No, I'm actually going to be sick," he interrupts, clamping a hand to his mouth and running from the room. A moment later and you hear retching in the bathroom. Pulling a face, you get to your feet and head to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water. When you reach the bathroom a minute later, a long sigh escapes your lips. He's kneeling on the hard tiled floor, his hands on his knees, his thin t-shirt pulling across his back.

"Here," you say gently, passing him the glass.

"Thanks," he whispers as he accepts it, but makes no effort to raise it to his lips.

Grabbing a flannel from beside the sink, you run it under the cold tap and wring it out. He takes it from you gratefully, and this time he does bring it up to his face to wipe his mouth. You perch on the edge of the bathtub beside him, rubbing his back. "You okay?"

Swallowing hard, he nods and flushes the toilet, before shakily getting to his feet and sipping at the water you gave him. "Yeah. It was just the alcohol. I'll be fine."

You look at him intently for a moment. "I know you will."

He forces a smile. "Come on; don't want to miss the rest of Dirty bloody Dancing."

"You love it, really," you quip, as you head back to the lounge beside him.

Whether he's still drunk or it's intentional, you don't know, but he bumps his hip into yours as you walk. "Yeah," he smiles. "I guess I do."

It's not long, however, before he falls asleep in front of the television. You turn the film off (it's not like you don't know it off-by-heart anyway) and stand up, covering him with the throw that you bought him for Christmas but you don't think he ever uses, because it never seems to move from its position on the back of the armchair.

But then you're left with a dilemma. It's way past two a.m., and although you're craving your bed at home, it's so late and you're so tired that you're not sure it's entirely safe for you to be driving. Also, a little part of you wants to be around Harry, just in case of the unlikely event that he wakes up and wants to talk to you. And seeing as he is currently crashing on the sofa that you would normally frequent yourself in a situation such as this, that really only leaves you with one choice.

It feels very strange, standing in his dark bedroom. But you can't think that he would mind at all. In fact, he's offered to take the sofa while you have his bed before. You've never taken him up on it, though.

Crossing to the dresser, you open the second drawer down and extract a clean pair of his pyjamas. Of course, they're far too big for your small frame, but you don't want to sleep in your jeans and blouse.

You climb into his bed, sinking down amongst the soft pillows and thick sheets. It smells like him. And it's bigger than your bed. Somehow warmer. It's nice. A little weird, but really very nice.

Sleep must have crept up on you very suddenly, because the next thing you know, you're woken by movement somewhere in the room and the unfamiliar clock in front of you reads 4:00am. Panic sweeps through you as your sleep-addled brain tries to comprehend what's happening, but then you remember where you are and you calm down. A second later and there's pressure on the mattress behind you. Harry climbs into bed, pulling your body against his as if it's the most normal thing in the world. Maybe it is.

"Hey," you whisper, your eyes closed, trying not to let the smile show on your face.

"Oh, sorry," he mutters, his chin brushing your shoulder. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I didn't mean to steal your bed," you reply, to which he laughs.

"That's okay. It's big enough for the both of us."

"I took your pyjamas, too," you add.

His hand travels over your stomach and onto your waist, where his fingers proceed to dance over your hip. You feel him find the elasticated waistband of the bottoms and hook a finger underneath it. With his position so close to you, there's no way he doesn't feel the shiver that tickles your spine. "Oh yes, so you are," he comments quietly, using the aforementioned finger to ping the elastic sharply against your skin.

"Ouch!" you exclaim, elbowing him in the stomach. "I see you're feeling better."

But he doesn't reply, and you feel the need to roll over and face him, even if you do immediately miss the physical contact.

"_Are_ you feeling better?" you ask, concern etched on your features.

He looks at you unwaveringly for a few seconds, before saying, "Why did you come tonight? It was so late when I called, and I know you've been having a tough week. You could easily have said no. Why did you come?"

His question takes you by surprise, and you struggle to find an answer. "I don't know. You said that you knew I would. What made you say that?"

"I don't know," he echoes, and there's something in his face that you can't quite read through the darkness.

"I mean, you'd do the same for me, right?" you question, an inexplicable uncertainty suddenly gripping at your insides that you suspect has nothing to do with the words passing between you, but more the look in his eyes.

For the second time that night, his answer snatches all the breath from your body.

"In a heartbeat."

You find yourself glad that you put some space between the two of you, because the not-entirely-unfamiliar frisson of desire that shoots through you threatens to overwhelm.

"Right then," you say, fumbling for your words. "Well. There's your answer then."

But you don't think he's even listening. His unreadable expression has morphed into a smile, as if he's suddenly understood something that you don't, and he only hesitates for a split second before pressing his lips to yours.

It's a brief kiss; gentle, slow, his tongue merely grazing your bottom lip momentarily before he pulls away. But it's enough to leave you with the crushing, _devastating_ realisation that you are uncontrollably completely and wholly falling in love with him.

He doesn't say anything. Merely smiles and drops another tiny kiss to the tip of your nose, before tugging you against him again.

And you _know_ that there are a hundred questions to be answered come the morning, and you _know_ that his arms shouldn't be wrapped around you like this, and you _know_ that his fingers shouldn't be resting on your hip _under_ your t-shirt, and you _know_ you shouldn't be resting your head on his chest and seeking comfort from the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, not until discussions have been had and definitions have been made.

But it's just _so_ damn difficult to care.

* * *

**God, it's been so long since I updated 'There Is No Fight We Cannot Win'. I'm sorry, the next chapter is on its way, I swear. It's mostly written, I just haven't seemed to be able to find the inspiration to finish it. **

**In the meantime, I thought this one-shot might appease you all. It's very fluffy, I know. I'm not even sorry.**


End file.
